A Memory in Practice
by Onuard
Summary: Nearly six months have passed since the Battle of Hogwarts and Voldemort was defeated. Hermione Granger is going through her final year at Hogwarts with flying colors - that is, until, the Headmistress asks Hermione to sort through some things for her. What's the use of a specially crafted coding system when you haven't given anyone the key before your pre-planned death?
1. Chapter 1

It was a Monday evening when the headmistress of Hogwarts approached Hermione Granger, best friend of the Boy Who Lived and defeater the Dark Lord Voldemort, with a curious request. It was while Hermione was in the library, books piled around her, reading for leisure by her lonesome.

The 18 year-old, bushy-haired witch had looked up in surprise at the clearing of a throat.

"Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall said. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I have a favor to ask of you … There aren't many I can ask, you see … "

* * *

><p>They entered the headmistress's office. It was much changed from when she had last seen it, no spindly, whirring instruments or objects emitting tinkling sounds. The bookcases, however, were much the same, rising high and touching the ceiling, filled to the brim. As was the great, clawed desk and golden, high-backed chair behind it.<p>

Professor McGonagall halted before one of the numerous glass cabinets on the right side of the room and turned round to face her. "Thank you for doing this, Miss Granger. It is greatly appreciated. I would have done it myself, but..." Professor McGonagall trailed off, a sad look in her eyes.

"It's alright, professor," Hermione reassured, conjuring a hair band and using it to tie her hair up and out of the way. "No trouble. I'll make sure to watch and label the memories properly and put them in their respective boxes." She swished her wand and a neatly ordered set of boxes appeared on the floor, each with divisions for individual vials.

The old witch smiled at her. "Such a wonderful girl you are, Miss Granger. I'm so proud to have had you in the house of Gryffindor."

Hermione's cheeks reddened slightly and she turned and busied herself with tapping her wand in the correct pattern on the appropriate cabinet in the wall.

Dumbledore's hidden memory cabinet slid gently open, revealing dozens of glittering tiny bottles, row upon row, gleaming from a light set within. They were labeled only by number and a series of symbols that were coded in a system only Dumbledore knew.

"I see what you meant by them being hopelessly ordered," Hermione remarked, selecting one at random and slipping it out of its slot. "It will take me days to sort through all of this."

Professor McGonagall nodded. "Yes. I did try to start going through them, but, well." She looked unsettled and awkward. "It was one of his memories of Grindelwald."

"Ah." Hermione cleared her throat. No explanation was needed. "Well, just ignore me so you can get some work done. I'll just get to work as well."

McGonagall patted her on the arm and headed to the great desk that occupied the back of the large office.

Without further ado, Hermione turned back to the cabinet and the adjacent Pensieve. She marveled for a moment at the beautifully lit vials and then selected one at random. She opened it with a silent click and poured the softly glistening memory into the stone bowl of shimmering silver liquid. Then, she plunged her face in.

As the memory coalesced into existence around her, Hermione had a split second of thought in which she wondered if Pensieves ever got contaminated by all the faces that it was subjected to. (And wasn't that just an appetizing thought). She squirmed a little, imaging Professor Snape, his sallow complexion and greasy hair mixing with the magical liquid that was always a constant in these devices. She frowned a little at her uncharitable thoughts.

Dumbledore appeared, younger and healthy looking but already sporting his long silver beard. He marched through a hall of darkly green, gleaming bricks which she recognized as belonging to the Ministry.

He walked right past her and she rushed to catch up to him. Together, they entered a large, circular court room filled with witches and wizards sitting on high benches circling the entire width of the room. A man was chained to a chair in the center of it all, looking surly and bedraggled. Hermione had no idea who he was.

Unfortunately, the trial was already well in progress, so she had to wait until his name was mentioned in the passing before she could put a name to this particular memory. Then, to ensure there was nothing else of significance, she waited it out. With the pace of the trial and the attempts at shortening sentences or wheedling more of Voldemort's followers names out of the accused, the memory lasted a good two hours before she was released back into the Headmistress's office.

She straightened and looked around the quiet room. The Headmistress had left at some point while she'd been inside the Pensieve. Alone and unobserved (conveniently forgetting the many portraits), Hermione uttered a curse. The length of just a single memory was much longer than she expected. If there were many more court cases or memories of the equal length stored in the cabinet, the task would take not days but weeks.

Labeling the memory, she whisked it into the first unmarked box. One down, around a hundred to go. The next memory just happened to also be a trial.

Several hours later, when Hermione resurfaced from the fourth memory, Professor McGonagall was waiting for her, standing from her seat at her desk and looking disapproving. She was dressed in her night cap and had a cup of tea in hand.

"My girl, it's quite late. You should get some sleep. The memories don't need to be sorted all in a day's work. You look exhausted!"

Hermione smiled sheepishly and McGonagall gestured her over. "Come sit for a moment, please."

Hermione sat and McGonagall handed her a cup of tea that had been standing idly by, evidently waiting, as she waved her wand to re-heat it. Hermione accepted it gratefully.

McGonagall waited until she had settled in and taken a sip before speaking. "How did it go?" She asked.

Hermione grimaced. "It's going to take longer than we thought," she informed her. She blew on her tea, having scalded her tongue with the first sip. "I've only managed to get through four memories and it took nearly six hours."

The old witch looked a little crestfallen at her words. "It's going to take up too much of your time, what with your Head Girl duties on top of the amount of NEWTs work. I can't rightly ask you to find the time-"

"No, no," Hermione hastened to reassure her. "I'm well ahead of my classes and easily keeping up with my class work, you needn't worry. And the Head Girl stuff is more than taken care of. I've already spoken with Neville." She knew that there were very few people her professor could completely trust with Albus Dumbledore's memories, some of which were very private. She wasn't about to back out.

"I'm just surprised," Hermione said. "I had no idea to what extent Professor Dumbledore had researched and collected even the slightest whisperings of anything to do with Voldemort. Some of the memories amount to a few hours on their lonesome. I don't know how long it will take me to sort through them."

Professor McGonagall frowned and looked apologetic. "I appreciate what you are doing, truly. As it stands, I just wish Albus would save us the trouble and inform us of the key to his code." At the same time, they both glanced towards the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, slumbering peacefully in his gold-gilded chair high up on the wall. "Stubborn, old man," McGonagall muttered under her breath.

Hermione glanced at her in shocked surprise and McGonagall blushed, realizing she'd been heard.

They decided to pretend she hadn't heard, though Hermione couldn't help the small grin that crept onto her face.

"He didn't prepare for it to be packed away with the rest of his stuff upon his death," she said, "so he must have wanted us to observe the memories, for whatever reason. I'll keep an eye out for any clues. I can't fathom what he can possibly think we still have to learn."

McGonagall nodded absently, wondering the same thing.

Hermione sat her finished tea back on its saucer. "For now however, I'd best get back. Sleep well, headmistress."

"Goodnight, Miss Granger."

* * *

><p>Hermione spent the next several days after classes traipsing down Albus Dumbledore's memory lane.<p>

Some of the memories were intensely interesting, and some of it got old quickly, like the Death Eater Trials. Many of the trials proved people innocent. Many did not. She confirmed that using Veritaserum did not guarantee a truth coming out of one's mouth. She also learned how absolutely ruthless the Minister of the time was, and got to see firsthand Barty Crouch Jr.'s accusation and his subsequent attempt to escape.

Professor Snape's trial was also very interesting, but still something she largely already knew the contents of. Curiously, she happened upon the memory of Nicholas Flamel saying his final farewells alongside his wife, which was intensely depressing. Seeing the famous Alchemist himself was akin to seeing a storybook hero brought to life. She had expected him to look normal, despite his age. But there was something extraordinary about both him and his wife. Hermione figured it was the more than 600 years of life, but she couldn't be sure.

Most of the memories were present for obvious reasons. Dumbledore kept them so he could examine them more closely. Others, because they were a burden, she guessed.

Most of Dumbeldore's Grindelwald memories were painful or embarrassing for Hermione to witness. She couldn't for the life of her reason out why her late headmaster had left these particular memories for all and sundry to see. None of it was explicit or too private, but most of it was confrontational and involved heated debates which tended to deteriorate into furious arguments. It was a side of Albus Dumbledore few had ever witnessed in full.

The first time she happened upon one of Voldemort's memories, Hermione exited without waiting for the memory to progress. The quicker she got through individual memories, the better, for it was already the third day. And she knew the contents of this memory perfectly without having actually seen it. Harry's recollections from the numerous meetings he had had with Dumbledore back in sixth year allowed this - and she had no need to finish a memory which would take up precious time.

But then she had stared at the label she had inked '_Vold. kills HS_' (Hepzibah Smith) onto, and re-entered the memory to watch the recollection in its entirety.

It was of a 30-something still handsome Tom Riddle, wearing a suit and having tea with an older woman. In fact, he was charming Hepzibah Smith into letting him catch a glimpse of what she had spent a lifetime searching for.

Even without the healthy glow his cheeks had maintained throughout his Hogwarts years, the black-haired, young - for wizard standards - Tom Marvolo Riddle was a sight to behold, austere but with a confidence and mysterious air about him that drew eyes like moths to a flame. Occasionally, his eyes would flash red with suppressed emotion, or an ugly look would cross his face when he lost control, which Hepzibah, for the most part, didn't catch.

Hermione couldn't draw her eyes away from the scene for the duration of the memory, and was disturbed after she left it. She had watched him dispassionately kill Hepzibah and then casually frame her house elf, Hokey, with powerful memory charms. His every action and reaction exhibited such subtle intensity that you had to observe to try to predict what he would do next. The powers of persuasion and manipulation he possessed were frightening.

The second time, it was a memory of his relatives, and though she was fairly disgusted by them and held nothing but pity for Merope - despite her very real drugging and subsequent rape of the disgustingly cruel Tom Riddle senior - she watched these memories, too. And more, of the very few that held Voldemort's school years, of chats with Dumbledore himself when he invited a blank-faced Tom Riddle in for tea, or Riddle's second, much later request for the DADA position.

Tom Riddle's life prior to his debut as Lord Voldemort was one enormous eerie retelling of a horror story. It culminated into a monster capable of any atrocity. Hermione was hesitant to sympathize and call it a tragedy. He had been a boy with such amazing potential, a real love for Hogwarts and magic itself. But he didn't have a compassionate bone in his body. People were objects, obstacles he had to overcome. They were instruments and he played them masterfully.

Through all of Voldemort's tenure at Hogwarts, Dumbledore alone remained vigilant. He never trusted the façade Tom Riddle presented to the world after their first fateful encounter, but that did not mean he did not genuinely offer help or kindness, either. But Tom Riddle continued, utterly unmoved by Dumbledore's efforts to help him turn from his destructive path.

He was the textbook example of a sociopath, and it was difficult for Hermione to accept that humans – the human experience - could be so two-dimensional. She went to her dorms at night and dreamt of the memories, wondering if he had ever had any chance. Could people really be born evil?

The orphanage memory certainly suggested so. 11 year-old Tom Riddle showed his untrusting, cruel streak right from the get-go - it danced among his words and in the reputation he had fostered at the orphanage. When he harshly ordered Dumbledore to prove himself, he showed how aggressive he was. When the box of stolen objects, trophies, was revealed, a penchant for cruelty that might otherwise have been exaggerated by the other inhabitants. The thirsting for attention and the want to be special seemed greedy and unsavory when cast in the light of his aggressive, cold personality.

The fourth day dawned muggy and cold - early November, the first snow had yet to fall. Hermione went through her classes, dutifully taking notes but largely distracted.

She felt guilty for letting her thoughts linger on Voldemort's character. She wondered if splitting one's soul and destroying your humanity automatically meant insanity, or if that was hidden behind Tom Riddle's blank expressions all along.

Potions with Professor Slughorn passed quickly. She bottled up her potion just in time for the class to end, handing it off to the jovial old Slughorn with a faint smile after he congratulated her on a flawless potion. She headed up to the headmistress's office, hoping and dreading that she would run into any Voldemort-esque memories today.

Of course this meant that she ran into Professor Snape's memory of a Death Eater meeting and Charity Burbage's subsequent death, on her second go. Although Snape had averted his eyes once Nagini started feeding, the memory of it was crisp and clear and Hermione watched with horror-filled eyes. She returned to the present and nearly threw up right into the Pensieve.

This cemented her decision to stop, telling Professor McGonagall that she was taking a break for the day. It was Friday, she had extra incentive in the form of homework anyway.

Leaving the school - she had special permission - she visited Harry and Ron at the Weasley house, where they were staying while they went through Auror training.

Mrs. Weasley greeted her like a second daughter. "Hermione, sweetheart, how are you?" Age seemed to have caught up to the appearance of the Weasley Matriarch in the last half a year, gray hairs lining the vibrant red and her frame slightly thinner than it once was.

Still, the woman herself remained warm and strong. She hugged Hermione tightly.

"Hello, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione said into her shoulder, hugging back. "I'm alright."

"Molly, dear," Mrs. Weasley reminded. "Would you like something to eat? The boys aren't back yet from the ministry."

"That would be wonderful, thank you, Molly."

Mrs. Weasley sat her down with a bowl of warm soup and brought her up to date with the current goings-on with the Weasley family. Apparently, Fleur was pregnant, 3 weeks already.

"That's wonderful," Hermione said, smiling. "Please give them my congratulations. I haven't seen them in some time."

Mrs. Weasley hummed happily. "I haven't seen Bill so excited since he got his Hogwarts letter for the first time. Practically bouncing off the walls, he was."

They laughed and sat in silence for a short time, Hermione finishing off the last vestiges of her soup. She could feel Mrs. Weasley appraising her and raised an inquiring brow at her.

"How are your parents?" Mrs. Weasley asked finally, gently. "Are they adjusting well?"

Hermione shifted uneasily. She should have seen that coming. "They've settled back into their old jobs easily, but..." She shrugged. "They say they've forgiven me, but they seem uncomfortable when I'm around."

"Give them some time, dear. They're your parents, they love you."

A short time later ruckus in the form of two bickering young men was heard from outside. Faster than walking would have suggested, they burst into the front door of the Weasley home and toppled inside, one after the other.

"You cheated," Harry Potter's muffled voice wheezed from underneath the tall and lanky form that was Ronald Weasley sprawled across him. An elbow belonging to the messy, raven-haired figure shoved into Ron's side.

"Ow!" Ron complained and grumbled. His freckled face lifted and grinned down at his squirming best friend. "It's called strategy Harry, I can't help it if you're bollocks at chess."

"Get off me, you're heavy," Harry complained.

Ron struggled upwards, their limbs managing to tangle unhelpfully. Harry pushed and jostled him. "Quit pushing, you're not helping! And are you calling me fat?"

"Yes, you'd give my uncle a run for his money."

They managed to untangle and rose, giving each other a last shove.

"When Teddy's older, I'm going to tell him his godfather called his dad fat," Ron informed him, brushing down his clothes.

Harry made a face at Ron, but not before Hermione laughed and they spun around in surprise.

Smiles split their faces at her visage. "Hermione!" They chorused.

They sat down at the table to catch up, steaming bowls of soup already set out by Mrs. Weasley who had risen as soon as the telltale crack of apparition had signaled their arrival. She claimed work to do once they started eating and went off into the bowels of the house, waving off their thanks of food.

Eventually they settled down to turn their talk to more current matters.

"Enough about work, how's school Hermione?" Ron asked through a mouthful of bread dipped in soup. A chewed piece fell out of his mouth back into the soup.

Harry snorted into his soup while Hermione stared, horrified. "That's disgusting, Ronald Weasley," she told him frankly.

He shrugged unapologetically and grinned. She rolled her eyes.

"It's been good," she said. "I'm hardly needing to put effort into schoolwork. Especially the practical, I learned so much of the 7th year curriculum ahead of time trying to prepare for Voldemort."

"That's not really a new thing though, is it?" Harry said nonchalantly, eyeing her.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him and pursed her lips. "Do you even remember how hard third year was for me? Or fifth year OWLs?"

"That's only because you were trying to take one too many classes that year," Ron said in between a mouthful.

"And in fifth year it was because you started SPEW and were trying to supply the house elves with your knitting in between all the homework," Harry added with a nod.

"Not to mention having us and everything about Voldemort to distract you and take up your time."

"And the fact that Umbridge-"

"Okay! I get the point," Hermione huffed. A red tinge had adorned her cheeks.

"And you still managed to score top student all those years," Harry said, smiling now with a raised brow.

Hermione shot him a glare and collected their finished dishes. She stood, walking over to the sink to put them alongside the enormous pile in the sink. After a quick, wandless scourgify over the pile, she turned the water as hot as it could go and started washing each dish by hand to make sure they were properly sanitized.

Harry and Ron rose to help, cracking dry jokes and telling her Auror training stories while drying each dish by hand for her sake.

It warmed her heart to see the two of them so lighthearted and care free. She didn't want to spoil it by mentioning the Pensieve memories. She would wait until another day. For now, she would bask in how simple their lives had become.

* * *

><p>Saturday afternoon, all caught up with her homework, Hermione made her way from the library to the headmistress's office.<p>

"Ventus Nox," she told the gargoyle, and made her way up the spiraling stairs after it jumped aside.

The headmistress wasn't in her office. Hermione figured that even McGonagall took time off on the weekends, although perhaps the woman was patrolling or simply occupied elsewhere in the castle.

Walking over to the section of wall that hid the tall cabinet of memories, she tapped the correct pattern and left it to slowly slide open while she fetched the Pensieve from its pedestal. First box filled, she also conjured a new box to store the next memories in.

Humming thoughtfully, Hermione called a house elf and asked them to bring up dinner for her at 5 pm. She planned to get through as many memories as possible, disturbing or not. She plunged her face into the Pensieve and vanished from the Headmistress's office.

Several hours later, dinner finished and cup of tea drained, Hermione collected her fifth vial of the day and poured it into the Pensieve. The sun was starting to go down, but she paid it no mind.

Five minutes later, she came to, gasping with tears streaming down her face.

It only made sense, since she had seen one of Snape's memories already, that she would see more. But his Last Memory held particular significance to them all.

Heart aching painfully and hands shaking, she labeled a vial accordingly and slipped the memory inside with her wand. There was no way she would be able to watch the rest of it.

She reached for the next vial, unsettled. Deep down, Hermione resented Dumbledore for all his machinations. Raising Harry like a pig for slaughter, indeed.

She clenched her eyes shut, grimacing. A baby, unloved and neglected to the extreme right up until the day he learned he was more special than anyone. As if the gift of being a wizard made up for it, or fixed the damage that had been done and invariably built into his psyche.

Luckily, her best friend was smarter and more resilient than anyone could have hoped for. He had survived and managed to retain his health of mind, mostly. It was part of what actually made Harry Potter special from the beginning, really. Not a lightning bolt scar he had acquired through his mother's sacrifice.

Dumbledore meant well. Hermione poured the contents of the vial she held into the Pensieve and plunged her face into the airy liquid. She slid into a memory she had only heard Harry tell the full details of once.

It was Professor Slughorn's office more than fifty years ago, cosy with a large green carpet and antique looking furniture. It gleamed with brightly lit torches and lake-lit light streamed through the windows. A lit fireplace lent the place warmth. In one corner of the large room, a large table laden with empty plates and with discarded chairs around it morphed into existence. In the living area, six teenage boys sitting around Professor Slughorn, all on couches and whatever surfaces available, appeared. With it came the noise of quiet talk and the occasional chink as teacups or glasses were replaced on their coasters.

A much younger Slughorn sat well back in a comfortable winged armchair, his little feet resting upon a velvet pouffe. In one hand he grasped a small glass of wine, the other searching through a box of crystallized pineapple. Hermione was so used to him being bald that she almost didn't recognize him for a moment. He had thick, straw-colored hair, though there was already a galleon sized bald patch on his crown. His mustache, too, was blonde instead of the salt and pepper gray it was these days.

Hermione recognized a young Voldemort immediately. He was easily the most handsome and he looked the most relaxed. He had dark, slightly wavy hair which was artfully parted off middle and had a quiet air of aristocracy to him. His right hand lay negligently upon the arm of his chair, a gold and black ring upon his ring finger. Hermione recognized it as the second Horcrux, the one Dumbledore had destroyed himself and damaged his hand with.

Riddle was talking. She stepped closer to their circle, choosing a spot behind a couch across from Riddle. She wanted to be able to keep track of his expressions.

Riddle's eyes flickered as he turned to his professor. "... is it true, sir, that Professor Merrythought is retiring?" he asked.

"Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn't tell you," Slughorn said, waggling a reproving finger, though the effect was slightly ruined by him winking. "I must say, I'd like to know where you get your information from, boy. More knowledgeable than half the staff, you are."

Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks. It was obvious that Riddle already had them well under his spell.

"What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn't, and your careful flattery of the people who matter - thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you're quite right, it is my favorite -"

Several of the boys tittered again.

"- I confidently expect you to rise to Minister for Magic within twenty years. Fifteen, if you keep sending me pineapple. I have _excellent_ contacts at the Ministry."

Tom Riddle merely smiled as the others laughed again.

"I don't know that politics would suit me, sir," he said when the laughter had died away. "I don't have the right kind of background, for one thing."

A couple of the boys around him smirked at each other. They obviously knew something the rest of the room didn't.

"Nonsense," Slughorn said briskly, "couldn't be plainer you come from decent wizarding stock, abilities like yours. No, you'll go far, Tom, I've never been wrong about a student yet."

For all that Slughorn claimed he wasn't biased towards Muggleborns, it couldn't be clearer to Hermione that he still maintained certain expectations for magical prowess. If anything, it soured her to him only more.

The small golden clock standing upon Slughorn's desk chimed eleven o'clock behind him and he looked round.

"Good gracious, is it that time already? You'd better get going, boys, or we'll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow or it's detention. Same goes for you, Avery."

One by one the boys filed out of the room. Slughorn heaved himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk. A movement behind him made him look round; Riddle was still standing there.

Slughorn eyed him curiously. "Look sharp, Tom, you don't want to be caught out of bed after hours, and you a prefect …"

"Sir, I wanted to ask you something," Riddle said, his voice carefully nonchalant.

"Ask away then, m'boy, ask away …"

"Sir, I wondered what you know about … about Horcruxes?"

Slughorn stared at him, his thick fingers frozen in the act of absent-mindedly caressing the stem of his wine glass.

"Project for Defense Against the Dark Arts, is it?" Slughorn asked.

Hermione could tell that Slughorn didn't believe it for a second.

"Not exactly, sir," said Riddle, cocking his head. "I came across the term while reading and I didn't fully understand it."

"No … well … you'd be hard-pushed to find a book at Hogwarts that'll give you details on Horcruxes, Tom. That's very Dark stuff, very Dark indeed," said Slughorn.

"But you obviously know all about them, sir? I mean, a wizard like you – sorry, I mean, if you can't tell me, obviously – I just knew if anyone could tell me, you could – so I just thought I'd ask –"

It was very well done, thought Hermione, the hesitancy, the casual tone, the careful flattery, none of it overdone. She recognized a master at work, and she could tell that Riddle wanted the information very, very much; perhaps had been working towards this moment for weeks.

"Well," Slughorn said, not looking at Riddle, but fiddling with the ribbon on top of his box of crystallized pineapple, "well, it can't hurt to give you an overview, of course. Just so that you understand the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul."

"I don't quite understand how that works, though, sir," Riddle said.

His voice was carefully controlled, but Hermione could sense his excitement.

"Well, you split your soul, you see," Slughorn said, "and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But, of course, existence in such a form …"

Slughorn's face crumpled.

" … few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable."

But Riddle's hunger was now apparent; his expression was greedy, he could no longer hide his longing. A shiver climbed up Hermione's spine.

"How does one split their soul?"

"Well," Slughorn said uncomfortably, "you must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against nature."

"But how do you do it?" Riddle pressed.

"By an act of evil – the supreme act of evil. By committing murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent on creating a Horcrux would use the damage to his advantage: he would encase the torn portion –"

Riddle's brow furrowed in what looked like confusion, or frustration, Hermione couldn't tell. "Encase? But how -?"

"There is a spell, do not ask me, I don't know!" Slughorn said, shaking his head. "Do I look as though I have tried it – do I look like a killer?"

"No sir, of course not," Riddle said quickly. "I'm sorry … I didn't mean to offend …"

"Not at all, not at all, not offended," Slughorn said gruffly. "It's natural to feel some curiosity about these things … wizards of a certain caliber have always been drawn to that aspect of magic …"

"Yes, sir," said Riddle. "What I don't understand, though – just out of curiosity – I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once? Wouldn't it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces? I mean, for instance, isn't seven the most magically powerful number, wouldn't seven -?"

"Merlin's beard, Tom!" Slughorn yelped. "Seven! Isn't it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in any case … bad enough to divide the soul … but to rip it into seven pieces …"

Slughorn looked deeply troubled now: he was gazing at Riddle as though he had never seen him plainly before and Hermione could tell that he was regretting entering the conversation at all.

The atmosphere had grown tense. Hermione's heart beat a staccato rhythm with it.

"Of course," Slughorn muttered, "this is all hypothetical, what we're discussing, isn't it? All academic …"

"Yes, sir, of course," Riddle said quickly. She wondered how Slughorn had treated Riddle after these events. Surely, he was not so blind as to try to brush it all under the carpet.

"But all the same, Tom … keep it quiet, what I've told - that's to say, what we've discussed. People wouldn't like to think we've been chatting about Horcruxes. It's a banned subject at Hogwarts, you know … Dumbledore's particularly fierce about it …"

"I won't say a word, sir," Riddle reassured. He turned and left, but not before Hermione glimpsed his face, which was full of the same wild happiness it had worn when he had first found out that he was a wizard, the sort of happiness that did not enhance his handsome features, but made them, somehow, less human.

She shuddered and her wand shot, on instinct, into her hand. Sparks flew from the tip and she jumped out of the way of the passing Tom Riddle, not wanting his phantom body to go through her. With the action, his eyes flickered and shot to her.

She held his gaze numbly for all of a second, taking an automatic step back. Then the memory faded around her and she landed back in McGonagall's office, pale and trembling.

Shivers wracked her frame. Had he just _looked at her! _

She put a hand to her chest and stumbled away from the Pensieve, breathing fast. She leant against one of the numerous bookcases and slid to the floor.

She was terribly tired, exhausted even, she quickly reasoned. There might have simply been something behind her in the memory.

Hermione rubbed at her face, clenching her eyes shut. The image of slightly confused eyes flicking up at her, still leaking wild, manic happiness, appeared under her lids and she shuddered again.

But then, she recalled hazily, his eyes had looked straight ahead again, as if he hadn't seen anything. They led the way out of the office, his face blank.

There was only one explanation, then. It had been a coincidence.

Immediately, relief spread through her like a drug and she drooped limply, letting loose a shuddering breath.

It was time for a break, she decided. Hermione rose, returned to the Pensieve and started tidying away the boxes and vials she had already marked. After she was finished, she stared at the memory still laying dormant in the Pensieve.

Had Dumbledore left these memories behind purposefully, or had he simply not taken the time to ensure they were stored before his death? Either was possible, and his infuriating portrait persona had refused to wake for the last three weeks to answer any questions. Ever since he had asked Professor McGonagall to store his memories and put them in the Dumbledore Vault, according to her.

It felt like she shoving troubling occurrences aside too often lately, but she siphoned the memory into a vial and marked it, _'TMR, # of HRCRXS_' with her quill and laid it off to the side, not in the box that was to be stored. Perhaps she would look at the memory again later.

* * *

><p>A week later, Hermione presented McGonagall with four neatly marked and carefully sorted boxes of memories. One had a large <em>Miscellaneous<em>, written across the side, another _Death Eater Trials_, a third _Voldemort; 1970s and on_, and a fourth, _Voldemort; pre 1970s_. It wasn't meant to be creative or original, Hermione was only looking for adequate describers of the contents. Each also had a small detailing beneath their titles, to help if you knew what you were looking for.

Professor McGonagall thanked her profusely and invited her to partake of the Pensieve whenever she liked.

Hermione's eyes had widened at the offer. "Could I use it to study for my NEWTs?" she asked eagerly.

McGonagall smiled. "Of course, my dear."

* * *

><p>Later that evening, as Hermione was readying for bed in the Head Girl's room, she cast her school clothes onto her bed and dressed in her pajamas. After entering her attached bathroom to brush her teeth, she reentered her bedroom and went to fold the cast offs. She got to her robe and as she lifted it, something tumbled out of the pockets and onto her covers.<p>

A small, familiarly marked vial lay had fallen out. She stared at it, nonplussed, but then picked it up and glanced at the label, remembering with a sudden lightning clarity why she had set aside a week ago. However, she hadn't remembered pocketing it and didn't think that she would either; such an important, dark memory was dangerous to carry around.

But it was no longer relevant, was it?

Contemplating it for only a moment, she threw her robe back on, pocketed her wand and the vial and left her bedroom. She marched to the floo-connected fireplace the Head Girl and Boy had the privilege of having and knelt down with the floo pot in hand. She floo-called the headmistress's office and stuck her head in the fireplace.

Thankfully, Professor McGonagall was still awake. Although Hermione had planned to hand the vial over, she suddenly changed her mind and asked if she could borrow the Pensieve instead. Her Professor was more than happy to oblige. Hermione stepped through the fireplace and flicked her wand at the Pensieve, floating it through the castle back to her dorms.

Nervous and wondering what she was doing the entire trip back, she placed the stone Pensieve on her dresser and tucked her wand back into her robe pocket. Then she opened the vial and carefully tipped the contents. The Pensieve swilled, a faint whisper coming from the silver liquid, and Hermione stared at it.

She needed to know. She had to know that it had been a fluke. She lowered her face and was whisked inside.

A familiar scene appeared and she immediately made her way to the group of students and teacher. This time, she chose a spot near the entrance to Slughorn's office. She wasn't scared, she was just … being cautious.

"...is it true, sir, that Professor Merrythought is retiring?"Riddle's voice, smooth and cultured, started the scene.

Far enough away, near the door, she could distance herself somewhat from the happenings and the intensity of the confrontation between Riddle and Slughorn once the students left.

This time, she watched Riddle stay behind, sending the exiting young men dismissive glances when they gave him questioning glances.

Slughorn turned round after rising, as he had before, when he realized not everyone had left.

The jovial man eyed Riddle curiously. "Look sharp, Tom, you don't want to be caught out of bed after hours, and you a prefect …"

"Sir, I wanted to ask you something."

Hermione shuddered and wanted to plug her ears, or better yet, scream at her Professor to not say anything.

"Ask away then, m'boy, ask away …"

"Sir, I wondered what you know about … about Horcruxes?"

She tuned them out and instead readied herself for when Riddle would rise and exit. Just to be on the safe side, she positioned herself out of the way of Riddle's direct path to the door – and also on the opposite side of where she had stood before. This time, she would catch him glancing off to the side she was most assuredly _not_ on, and then her fears would be laid to rest.

"Well, you split your soul, you see, and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But, of course, existence in such a form …"

Hermione glanced up in time to see Slughorn's face crumple.

" … few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable."

She couldn't bear to look at Riddle, at the hunger in his face, at this point. She suddenly had the fiercest desire to hug Harry to pieces and never let go. How he had managed to face off this monster countless times, she couldn't fathom.

"How does one split their soul?"

Hermione thought of the many months she had spent with Harry and Ron, searching for clues to where the Horcruxes could be hidden.

She switched quickly to happier memories at the unsettling rise in Slughorn's voice when he said, "Don't ask me, I don't know!" Previous years at school, together with her two best friends. Recent times together, reveling in their freedom.

"Merlin's beard, Tom! Seven! Isn't it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in any case … bad enough to divide the soul … but to rip it into seven pieces …"

She cringed. She could almost feel how heavy the air had grown. Any moment now …

"Of course," Slughorn's voice muttered, "this is all hypothetical, what we're discussing, isn't it? All academic …"

Hermione practically froze when Riddle came her way, stepping calmly towards the door. She forced herself to look at his approaching face and see the fierce joy etched there, to catch the moment when his attention was diverted by seemingly nothing.

He passed the spot she had stood upon previously and continued as he was. Relief shot through her system like adrenaline - and just as quickly sent it spiraling in the opposite direction.

_He hadn't looked to the side_.

His eyes had not been attracted, even momentarily, to anything in that direction as they had been last time.

Faster than a striking snake, Tom Riddle's hand shot out and grasped her wrist.

She let loose a blood-curling scream of sheer terror, but no sound came out.

Grip vice-like, he locked another arm around her and dragged her from the room, Slughorn none the wiser.

* * *

><p>Derp<p>

Please tell me what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione thrashed, kicked and bit; it did little to deter Voldemort. At the tender age of nearly 17, he had already grown into most of his wiry frame and the strength that came with it.

"_Petrificus Totalus_," he hissed as Slughorn's office door clicked behind him.

A curious thing happened then. Instead of freezing like they both expected her to, the spell passed through her and hit the corridor wall a little ways above them with a hiss.

They were equally shocked at the turn of events, but Hermione recovered just slightly faster than Voldemort did. She bucked and knocked her head backwards with every bit of strength she possessed.

It collided with Riddle's chin, sending stars through her eyes and making Riddle let out a grunt of pain. He loosened his hold on her for long enough that she shoved him backwards and wrenched out of his arms, taking off like a rocket through the dungeon corridor.

An extra pair of feet slapping on stones followed her flight soon enough, signaling his pursuit. She fumbled for her wand and cancelled the _silencio_ he had evidently cast on her. She tossed a spell backwards.

It did nothing. "Help!" She screamed, her voice echoing through the dungeons. "Somebody!" She wheeled around the next corner, running blindly through muggy, dimly lit hallways.

Riddle wheeled around the corner as quickly. A red stunner passed harmlessly through her chest and she stared as it exploded in a shower of red sparks and a bang against the wall up ahead. She was still staring when she ran past. She'd only seen the likes of Harry and Ginny garner such responses from a simple _Stupefy_.

She passed several doorways. They wouldn't do, Riddle would be able to corner her. She had to find people, non-Slytherins, preferably. Or somewhere to hide, though she wasn't so sure how wise that decision was.

Her eyes alighted on stairs that lead to the first floor. She headed that way, Riddle closing in from behind. If he got close enough, he would probably jump her. An orange spell, conjured ropes, shot through her and landed harmlessly on the floor. She jumped over them and wrenched herself up the stairs.

Imagining he was closer than he actually was, she swore she felt phantom hands reaching for her ankles for a moment. She shuddered and burst out into the Main Hall.

Crossing it in seconds, she had a moment to glimpse the dark interior of the Great Hall - it was 11 at night, she had almost forgotten - before she swerved and changed course for the staircase. And side-hopped an animated suit of armor who made a grab for her with a surprised intake of breath.

She jumped the steps two at a time and was nearly three-quarters of the way up when the suit of armor's helmet detached itself and flew at her. She lifted her arms to shield herself from the collision, but then the helmet flew through her and landed on the second floor, rolling to a noisy stop. She stared at it. That was starting to come in handy.

Near the bottom of the stairs, her pursuer was practically flying up the stairs with his long legs. An angry growl of frustration reached her ears, confirming that it had been him enchanting the suit.

And he was gaining on her. It was time to change tactics. Once on the second floor, she dove behind a corner and shot a spell blindly round it, and two more just for good measure. She chanced a glance and paled.

A positively livid looking Riddle was fast approaching, his robes flying and tension in every line of his body. He had not been deterred by her spell in the slightest.

And Still Coming, so she scrambled from her vantage point, firing another spell and running for the closest tapestry.

Scrambling through the hidden passage, Hermione came out on the fourth floor and dove behind the statue of Barnabies Cuff. She had but a second, trying to calm her racing heart, before Riddle himself burst from the hidden passage.

Somehow, he knew she was there. He dashed in her direction and in the next instant, the statue suddenly seemed to come alive, threatening to cage her in. She rolled out from under it before it could completely trap her and stumbled to her feet, brandishing her wand at him. "Stay back!" She yelled. "_Stupefy_!"

Riddle ducked and the spell missed by a hair, singeing his just slightly. If possible he looked even angrier now, evident only in the slight downturn of his lips and the shadow over eyes possessing an otherworldly glint.

"_Incarcerous_!" In the same instant, she thought '_EXPELLIARMUS_!' in her mind with all the willpower she possessed.

Miraculously, it worked. Riddle dodged, slashing his wand down in one sharp movement as he did. The ropes were cancelled. But her non-verbal spell succeeded where the other did not. She forced it to follow his trajectory, and was rewarded with Riddle's wand flying towards her - along with a strange look passing across his face.

But she had no time to pay it any attention. She did not possess the unerring skills of a seeker - the wand flew past her outstretched hand and clattered to the floor behind her. She scrambled to pick it up. A body slammed heavily into her for her efforts and she was sent painfully sprawling. The breath was knocked from her as they landed and slid a few inches before stopping.

Hermione moaned in pain and heaved weakly at Riddle's weight - he was heavy! Her wand was wrenched from her hand. Riddle's elbow suddenly sunk into her back as well, digging and preventing her from rising. A shoe-clad foot crunched painfully against her left wrist, stopping her attempt to utilize her unstuck left elbow.

"Ow! Stop, that hurts," she yelled into the floor.

The tip of a wand - hers? - dug into her neck. She stilled by instinct.

"Shall we test and see whether your own wand works on you?" Riddle asked, his voice coming out in pants.

"It doesn't," she lied. She really had no idea whether it did or not. She resumed struggling and tried to twist out from under him. The elbow squished under their combined weights pressed against something.

Riddle's own wand.

"If - if you try it," Hermione said, revealing her bluff, "I'll break your wand."

"You wouldn't have time," he said.

"I will if your spell goes through me again," she snapped.

The wand remained where it was. "Who are you?" he growled.

"Hermione Granger," she responded unhelpfully.

"Why have I never seen you before?" He pressed. "You're wearing Gryffindor robes and you couldn't be older than 17."

"I'm 18, you git," Hermione said. "And maybe I just spend a lot of time in the library."

"Hogwarts contains nearly 600 students. My memory is exceptional - I would not forget a single face, whether I have heard their name or not."

"How modest of you," Hermione gritted out, and gasped when the elbow dug in.

"If you keep moving, I will cast," Riddle threatened. "Broken wand or not."

She stilled and he eased up on the elbow somewhat.

"Now tell me who you are. Tell me why my magic went straight through you."

A sudden idea struck Hermione. There was a high chance Riddle might actually believe it. It had a lot of holes but ... it was the only thing she could think of to explain objects and magic passing through her. As if she was -

"I'm a ghost," she answered.

Riddle paused.

"... A ghost that can touch people," he said skeptically.

"Some of us ghosts can," she defended, having predicted the question. "Look at Peeves, he's constantly picking things up and throwing them round."

"Peeves is a poltergeist. He is rather a special case."

"Yes, and you never wondered where he came from? It's evidently entirely possible for there to be different kind of ghosts, if you just thought about it," Hermione snarked. His elbow dug into her spine in retaliation and she grunted in pain. "You're going to break my spine!"

Riddle shifted, easing up slightly. The wand stayed pressed into the back of her neck; she couldn't raise her head even slightly.

"... What a fortunate ability you have," Riddle remarked, finally. "A ghost that can touch people."

Hermione ignored it. "You're really heavy," she said with difficulty. "I'm going to start suffocating soon."

"... I have often heard ghosts lamenting their lack of senses ..."

Something tickled the back of her neck, and her hair was moved.

"What are you doing?" She asked, alarmed.

A long-fingered hand replaced the wand that had been harshly held against her neck and the fingers dug painfully in.

"Can a ghost feel pain?" Riddle asked, seemingly innocent. "Cast magic? To what extent can their abilities stretch before they are considered more living than dead?" The hand squeezed harshly.

"I think -" Hermione gasped, "- that the exception here is you, not me. I've drifted around this castle for years untold and no one has seen hide nor hair of me, let alone felt my touch." _In a manner of speaking..._

"... Perhaps," Riddle assented, loosening his hold. "Shall we test that theory?"

Before she could question him, Riddle pressed a thumb and forefinger harshly into a pressure point in the junction between her shoulder and neck.

She yelped in surprised pain and he hissed, "_Petrificus Totalus_."

To her horror, her body went rigid.

Riddle got off of her, turning her stiff form over as he did. He then knelt next to her, a victorious sneer adorning on his face.

"So, your own wand can be used against you."

He twirled it in his fingers, staring at it. "It is heating rather uncomfortably, I admit. I think it doesn't like my touch." He raised a cool eyebrow at her. "What do you think?"

Hermione glared up at him, unable to do anything more. Wands weren't meant to do magic for just anyone! She hoped hers burned off his hand!

"I think I'll be keeping it for the time being, at any rate," he smirked, as if he understood perfectly well. "Wouldn't want you getting any ideas, yes?

"Now ..." Riddle hummed and looked round. Spotting something peeking out from under the hem of her robes, he reached over and retrieved his wand. "Can't have you breaking it," he muttered.

He rose and twitched her wand at her. "_Mobolicorpus_."

Hermione rose into the air.

Then he disillusioned her. The familiar feeling of an egg cracking and spilling over her skin crept across her form and rendered her near invisible.

Satisfied, Riddle sent her floating ahead of him and took off, back in the direction of the dungeons.

They trekked through the halls, Hermione prone and floating. She was forced to stare at the ceiling without really seeing it. _How had this happened?!_ Pensieves didn't have hidden powers. Admittedly, she knew little about them or how they worked, but this was beyond the realm of possibility, even with magic.

Off the top of her head, she could list at least three different, glaring _Why Nots_.

First, if this was some sort of bizarre time-traveling accident (which she knew without a doubt it was not), it was disobeying one of the first laws of time-travel. One could not travel further than 6 hours into the past. Fifty something years was a ridiculous concept. There was a niggling voice that told her Eloise Mintumble had traveled back nearly five centuries, but she refused to listen to it. Awful things happened to wizards who meddled with time.

Second, time-travel through a Pensieve? A container, any container, could hold a memory if the wizard or witch knew how to properly extract it. The Pensieve and its contents only served as the magical medium which allowed the user to examine the memory up close. It had a lot in common with magical portraits, in fact.

Granted, it was slightly more complex, but a time-turner it was not. What she knew of time devices (including the Bell Jar in the Department of Mysteries) was hefty. As a 13-14 year old girl using a time-turner, it had been of the utmost importance that she knew exactly what she was dealing with. Even if Professor McGonagall hadn't loaned her several different texts on time-travel, she would have researched it herself.

No, the Pensieve most assuredly had Not sent her careening through time.

Third, and perhaps most glaring: A memory was someone's recollection of an event; a collection of sights, sounds and smells, transmitted directly to the observer's brain. It was not an actual event or happening and thus not tangible.

This, more than anything, convinced Hermione that she was likely hallucinating. She must have returned to the Headmistress's office after whatever memory and tripped, bumped her head. She'd read about cases like that, where a witch or wizard had wild dreams or hallucinations after near-death experiences or serious injuries. When they came to, they usually claimed having lived different lives or being a changed person.

The dungeon ceilings was a horrible thing to be subjected to whilst one was left waiting in suspense. Even with what little light the dimmed torches offered the ceilings, she had counted at least 7 large spiders crawling about the general condensation and cobwebs.

They reached a standpoint. Riddle halted and whispered something. Stone scraped against stone; brighter light spilled out. Quiet chattering. The Slytherin common room, then.

Riddle walked inside. Her frozen form did not move to follow him.

Riddle came back with a student. A lackey, most likely. Hermione knew he had had those, even in his sixth year.

The stone scraped again and the hallway darkened, lit only by the occasional torch.

"What is it, Tom-?"

The unknown student - a male - cut himself off. She imagined a vicious glare was sent to shut him up. Voldemort could probably make even the bravest of souls swallow their words with a simple look.

She could only just see him from the corners of her eyes. Dark, neatly cut chin-length hair and a tan. He moved out of her line of sight as they started moving again, away from the Slytherin common room this time. That was probably a bad thing.

Five minutes later, they entered a chilly, moon-lit room with only more cobwebs on the ceiling. The door shut behind them and Riddle muttered a string of spells, warding the room.

Then he turned around, first canceling the hovering charm on her (at least she was lowered gently, she grumbled) and then the disillusionment charm. She was still left petrified, laying on the floor and able to see them properly now.

They towered over her, Riddle dark and ominous, standing a little off to the side, and the student flabbergasted and gaping. He had a hawk-nose and heavy brows.

"Merlin's balls, Tom, is that -"

"A student? Yes." Satisfaction had crept into his tone, but his face was blank, his eyes glinting in the darkness. Apparently, he was satisfied to find others could see her. Point against the ghost claim, she thought warily.

Glee crept into the boy's voice, an oily smile on his face. "And a Gryffindor." Great. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes and settled for glaring.

"Hm, and a Mudblood, most likely," Riddle informed him.

_How dare he - ?!_

A small sound of fury escaped Hermione's frozen lips. She wished she could muster up the filthiest glare she had in her arsenal for them. Or perhaps set Tom Riddle on fire with the heat of her hatred for that word.

The boy laughed. "She didn't like that, Tom. What were you planning on doing with her?" he asked.

"I haven't decided. Check her pockets," he ordered.

"Her pockets-? Oh her wand," the smarmy boy assumed wrongly. He knelt down and reached out to touch her -

- and retracted his hand, shouting in surprise. His hand had slid straight through her.

To his credit, the first thing that came out of his mouth was: "What the hell? Is she a ghost? She feels as if she's not there at all." _If only that was really the case._

"I'm not certain myself," Riddle said slowly. "She accosted me in the corridor whilst I was on my way back." _Liar_, Hermione seethed. "Of course, I subdued her easily enough, but I had to do it without magic at first."

"Without magic -? You don't mean -?" The boy was quick on the uptake. He took out his wand and chanted the first thing that came to mind:

"_Imperio_."

The spell fizzed through her, unnoticed by the boy but setting a scowl upon Riddle's face.

"She's petrified, you simpleton," he bit out.

"Oh, right ..."

Not wanting to irritate Riddle further, the boy chose a harmless hair-changing jinx. The bright neon spell shot towards her and passed harmlessly through.

"Try it with this one." Riddle handed over her wand.

"_Furnunculus_," the boy said, flicking her wand.

Several things happened then. The spell shot at her. And then went straight through, but not before the boy cursed and dropped her wand. It clattered to the floor.

"It's hot," the boy said in surprise, staring at his hand and her wand.

As he watched, his hand turned a nasty shade of red. Slowly, a boil formed on his palm. "The spell backfired -!"

"Interesting," Riddle remarked quietly, dismissing his complaining fellow. "Perhaps your claims do have some merit, Ms. Granger."

It was interesting - in all the worst ways - to her, too. She hated to think that maybe she was directly connected to Voldemort in this messed up dream.

"Thank you for your help, Cicero."

"Oh - well, it was nothing, Tom ..." That seemed to be all that was needed to get him to leave. The door closed softly behind him after Riddle allowed him exit.

Riddle re-did his wards and then bent down next her, tapping her wand against his palm. He waited, staring at her.

"... I'm going to allow you to talk, Miss Granger. Don't bother shouting or screaming for help. The wards I set up prevent outsiders from listening in." He pointed her wand at her face. "_Finite_."

Hermione's face unfroze and the wand was removed. It was disconcerting having your own wand used on you again and again. "Give it back," she growled.

"Your wand? That would be counter-productive," Riddle said. "What were you doing in Professor Slughorn's office?"

"I was passing through," Hermione snapped.

"Oh? And here I was under the impression you haunted the library. If you forgive me for saying so, you do look the sort."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "If anyone looks like a boy desperate for recognition through his smarts, it's you."

The corners of his mouth turned down. "Is that what I implied? I do frequent the library." His face darkened. "Have you been spying on me there? Why were you in Professor Slughorn's office?"

Hermione just barely refrained from rolling her eyes. "No, I haven't spied on anyone in the library. I was only passing through Professor Slughorn's office." She hesitated. "I stayed because ... I heard a specific term. I was curious," she invented. Best to lead him on a tangent than to let him keep digging.

"And what term was that." His eyes, dark as to be nearly pitch, bored into her.

Hermione looked away. How better to tell a lie than to base it in truth? "Horcrux."

She missed how his eyes flashed. "... And what do you know about - Horcruxes?"

"Not a lot," Hermione lied. She stared at her socked feet. "It's Dark magic. Very Dark."

"Hm. You seem learned. Tell me, how does one permanently banish a _ghost_?" His lips curled unpleasantly around the word 'ghost', as if he found the very word offensive.

She blanched. What if he tried to banish her and sent her into the nothingness, instead?

"Or... I could test out the Killing Curse on you. Your body _feels_, after all. Your skin is... Not warm. Cool to the touch." He brushed a finger down her face and she flinched away. "But I can see your pulse racing on your throat. Do you also eat?"

"Not recently," Hermione said.

He cocked his head at her non-answer and narrowed his eyes slightly. "If you don't mind my asking, how ever did you manage to get yourself killed in -" he flicked a glance at her cotton sweats and the plain old grey t-shirt peaking from in between her robes, "- sleeping attire beneath your Hogwarts robe?"

Hermione pursed her lips. "I do mind. Maybe I jumped off the Astronomy Tower after a fit of depression, you insensitive swot." Most ghosts were very sensitive about their deaths, after all.

"You are rather a curious creature ..." Riddle sighed. "I hope you realize this leaves me with very few options. I must either force you to pass on ... Which I am not entirely certain is possible ... Or I can _Obliviate_ you. I know which one I feel more comfortable with."

He pointed her wand at her. Hermione's eyes widened. "Wait -"

"_Obliviate_."

Well, at least he hadn't cast the Killing Curse.

* * *

><p>Please tell me what you think!<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you all for your kind reviews!

* * *

><p>Hermione's eyes glazed over.<p>

_I was looking through Professor Dumbledore's Pensieve when ... YoungVoldemortApprehendedMe - I fled - he caught me - took my wand –_

The memories coalesced, one after another, leading up to the present and then she was caught up. Hermione let out a shuddering gasp and blinked rapidly as she came to.

She looked around in confusion: the abandoned classroom; Petrified and with Voldemort standing over her, arms hanging loosely at his sides - Everything was recalled and accounted for … except for whatever had happened in the last few seconds.

"What have you done to me?" she demanded.

Wind rattled against the lone window as Voldemort walked past her. "Done? I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about." He stopped at the window, turning his back to her as he stared through it. She stared at him disbelievingly.

"I apologize for apprehending you so forcefully," Riddle said suddenly. "… You must understand - a strange girl, walking about the castle at night, following students around. It was suspicious, perhaps even dangerous."

He turned round and paced back to her. He had a strange look on his face - he looked almost ... _contrite_.

She eyed him warily.

"I had to check – to make sure," Riddle continued. "Now that I suspect that you are in fact, a ghost, the circumstances have changed. But I still feel obligated to report you to the Headmaster."

He lifted her wand, as if to use it, then stared her in the eye. "Will you come peacefully?"

A moment's hesitance, Hermione staring at some point in between his eyes (one could never be _too_ safe), and then she gave a tiny nod of assent. The spell left her limbs and she nearly groaned in relief, just managing to keep it to a small sigh. She rose without any offered help, not that she expected any.

He waited at the door while she worked out the kinks in her limbs, before she glanced pointedly at her still captive wand and he caught her gaze. If he was going to pretend at diplomacy, she wanted her wand back - not that she actually expected that, either.

And predictably, he tucked the wand away brusquely, lending her an apologetic smile. Well, two could play that game.

She held out a hand, expectantly. It was uncharacteristic enough of him to put away his greatest weapon against her, but to pretend it was because he was being considerate? The thought was unbearable.

Riddle raised a brow at her. "Surely you understand ... I shall be retaining your wand for the time being. I am a prefect. It is my responsibility to ensure nothing untoward poses a threat to the school or its inhabitants. In your ambiguity, you possess such a liability. I cannot in my right mind arm you."

As if that was really the reason! Regardless, she was unable to fault his reasoning. They both knew his own wand wasn't working against her.

Together, they left the room and then the dungeons, Tom leading the way but keeping an eye on her at all times. He was taking them through only seldom used corridors and hidden shortcuts - trying to, she guessed, avoid running into anyone.

While they walked through the eerily silent school (really, where was the yelling caretaker, or Peeves knocking down suits of armor when you needed them?) Hermione was able to deduce one important fact.

The sod had _obliviated_ her. Something was missing from her memory - but it was near impossible to examine the last - what, hour that it had been since she first arrived in the memory? - objectively. Memory Charms often came with strings attached; an impulse not to examine confusing or hazy holes in your memories too closely, skewed logic if you managed to work around the impulse. Memory Charms were actually fiercely complex - the level of competence tied directly with the damage done. It was part of the reason many of Lockhart's victims had been left hospitalized.

Working around it would be hard. She loathed to think there might be something important she had forgotten. And that the only reason she wasn't _loopy_ was because Voldemort was competent.

And there she went believing that this was all real. She resisted the urge to face-palm.

Halfway through coming up with contingent plans and ways of retrieving her wand (she wouldn't put it past Riddle to "accidentally" leave with it still in his pocket), they were stopped by a stray teacher.

Or perhaps not so stray. Long midnight robes speckled with tiny stars, complete with a blue sleeping cap sitting on shoulder length auburn hair, adorned a tall, thin man. His startlingly blue eyes gazed out curiously at them through half-moon spectacles and his nose was already long broken. Albus Dumbledore looked like something out of a fairytale, even as a middle-aged man.

The man himself spared her a fleeting glance before locking eyes on Riddle. Suspicious as ever of Riddle, he was.

"... Mr. Riddle, it is nearing 12:30 at night. Not even Prefects are allowed to be out after hours. I trust you have an explanation for this." Hermione felt slightly ignored.

She opened her mouth to respond but Riddle beat her to it. There was an inscrutable look upon his face. The feeling that this was exactly who Tom Riddle had been hoping to avoid cemented in her thoughts.

"I caught this strange girl stalking me in the corridors after I left Professor Slughorn's get-together, sir," Riddle said. "Upon further investigation I found that she is not a student here -"

"- I sort of am," Hermione protested. "And I wasn't stalking anyone."

Riddle ignored her. "I thought it wise to bring her unauthorized presence to the attention of Headmaster Dippet."

Dumbledore looked over his spectacles at her, seeing her properly this time. His eyes swept across her face, from her bushy brown hair to her slightly dimpled nose. There was no recognition in his eyes, not that she expected any. Then he scrutinized her robe and the Gryffindor badge sitting proudly upon its breast, and the grey pajamas underneath.

"Wherever did you come from, young lady? Have you, perhaps, been hiding in the castle?"

Hermione shook her head, careful not to meet his eyes. "It's a long story, sir."

"I suspect that it is ... Thank you for bringing it to our attention, Tom," Dumbledore said. "I shall take care of your charge from here. Miss ...?" He glanced inquiringly at her.

"Granger, sir," Hermione informed him.

"Granger," Dumbledore filled in, smiling kindly, "We shall adjourn to Professor Dippet's office to get this all sorted out. With any luck, he will still be awake and Tom here shall be able to avoid detention for being out of bed."

Riddle gained a tiny frown between his brows. "Sir, I would prefer -"

Dumbledore looked back at Riddle curiously. "It is quite late enough and you have class in the morning. Not to worry, my boy. I shall see to it that she is taken care of."

"I would like to have a hand in the proceedings, Sir," Riddle insisted. The slightest hints of frustration had leaked into his tone.

Dumbledore seemed to have noticed, too. He scrutinized the boy for a moment. "The subject is not up for debate, Mr. Riddle," he said finally.

Jaw clenching slightly, Riddle took a deep, calming breath. "... With all due respect, sir, she accosted me in the hallway, was following me around - and she claims she's a ghost who can use a wand."

He _would_ pull that card.

"A ghost?" Dumbledore repeated in surprise.

"Yes, sir. Magic acts strangely around her. And she is ... permeable." For whatever reason, Riddle seemed to believe she wouldn't rat him out.

Annoyingly, this was somehow proving true. She was torn - terribly so. There was no question that she trusted Dumbledore more than she trusted Voldemort, even a young one. Tom Riddle had already killed three people by now, while Dumbledore was working on getting rid of the latest Dark Lord. It was a no-brainer.

But at the same time ... the Dumbledore of this time - she didn't know him, he didn't know her. Even as an old man - wiser, more learned - he had still _used_ them all. Didn't that mean the he would be worse now? Yes, he would always do the right thing - on a grander scale. But for small things like this? There were too many unknowns. She had no desire to give another person a weapon against her by forcing Riddle to hand her wand over to Dumbledore.

If push came to shove, maybe then Hermione would say something.

As it stood, she would be forced to let Riddle leave with her wand. She didn't like it, but she wasn't willing to call him out on it. That she felt safer unarmed around Dumbledore than she did with Riddle contradicted her thoughts, but that's how it was. It was complicated.

"I hope you have not been dueling in the corridors whilst unsupervised, Tom," Dumbledore said reprovingly, recalling her to the present.

"I wouldn't dream of it, sir. It was more of an accident, than anything."

A darkly colored wand, ornately carved and long, maybe 13 inches, appeared in Dumbledore's hand. _Not the Elder Wand_, Hermione noted distantly.

He turned to her. "Do you mind, my dear?" He was asking permission to confirm Riddle's words.

Hermione gave a hapless shrug, tired. "Not at all, Professor."

The wand rose. Riddle's eyes gleamed, eager to see what magic the esteemed Professor would cast - and to see him fail in the attempt.

An elegant swirl, exaggerated for their sakes, and suddenly Hermione's world shrank, getting smaller and smaller, until finally she was staring up at two virtual giants looming over her. Odd sounds echoed through her head, like distant moaning. The wind outside. The howling was magnified three-fold.

A metallic clatter, then; a suit of armor toppling, that seemed common at Hogwarts. Likely Peeves. Hermione's little pointed ears flicked forward at the slightest rustling of robes. Her nose twitched, smelling a hundred things that she had trouble separating.

Her sharp vision caught the tail end of a fleeting, furious look that passed over Voldemort's features. It was gone in an instant, replaced with a rigid blank mask.

Still, an ominous feeling in the air persisted, making it static and dense. She shivered. Her fur stood on end. Suddenly, she wasn't so comfortable being a foot tall and powerless in the face of two powerful wizards. Their breathing was unnaturally loud, their every gesture large and bumbling. Distantly she marveled at her improved senses. She was even able to hear their hearts, beating a quiet, steady rhythm.

"_Meow_," she said, intending to say, '_Please turn me back_'. The _meow_ morphed into a mewl of distress, brown cat eyes wide and dismayed.

Dumbledore undid the transfiguration immediately. "I'm very sorry, my dear, I did not mean to distress you."

The sense of impending danger faded. "It's - quite alright, Hea- Professor," Hermione stuttered uncomfortably. Not only had that been an unpleasant experience, being a cat brought back unpleasant memories of the Polyjuice Potion mishap in her second year.

Gingerly, she felt for skin thankfully void of fur. Fingers patted her face, feeling the absence of whiskers and a pointed, wet nose, and then felt underneath her sleeves across her arms and an old scar that had never quite healed properly - _mudblood_. "You just - surprised me, is all."

She brushed back her hair and touched an object - a hat - still sitting upon her hair. She blinked in confusion. It was folded, like a paper boat, and as she reached the pointed top intent on removing it, it burst apart in an explosion of golds sparks. The sparks transformed into hundreds of tiny, glittering blue butterflies which fluttered around her face. She stared, dazzled at the sight.

Meanwhile, Riddle was full-on frowning and Dumbledore was smiling ruefully. Hermione's mouth had fallen open in a little 'O' of awe.

The butterflies dissipated and this seemed to signal Dumbledore that it was time to get going. He clapped his hands together.

"Now that that is all cleared up ... Shall we be off to see Professor Dippet, Miss Granger?"

She nodded slowly, but first: "One moment, please, Professor." Shifting so that Dumbledore's view was restricted, she gestured to Riddle, holding out her hand in a silent request for her wand.

Riddle eyes flashed, but he handed it over without a word, pausing only momentarily before dropping it in her hand. Quietly, she thanked him and then stepped back, joining Dumbledore at his side.

"We'd best be off. Straight off to bed with you, Tom," Dumbledore said. "Pleasant dreams." He turned round, Hermione trailing after him.

They moved away, and before they had fully left the corridor, Hermione glanced backwards and caught a last sight: Riddle, standing stiller than a statue, his robes draped darkly around him. What little light there was in the hallway seemed swallowed by his dark figure, casting eerie shadows in a halo around him. His bent face hid his expression from view, offering no further clues.

His head lifted and a dark stare met hers for just a moment, before he too, turned sharply round, going back the way they had come, opposite her and Dumbledore.

Dizzy, Hermione let loose the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"Come along, my dear," Dumbledore said. "Professor Dippet does often tend to paperwork until very late, but it is best not to chance catching him whilst he is readying for bed. Would you mind telling your story in full while we walk?"

"Of course, sir ..." She could tell him the truth now. Even if this was all a figment of her imagination, it didn't hurt to get help from every available source –

_What on earth?!_

Her hand was transparent.

Her immediate thought was, she was returning to the present. She froze, concentrating on the feeling of going back, a feeling not unlike apparating, but easier. Something she had attempted several times before now without any luck.

"Miss Granger_?_"

She ignored him, concentrating with all her might.

... It hurt! Her entire body started shuddering, her head felt like it was being forced to squeeze through a straw. She felt parched and hungry all at the same time. A massive headache formed in her temples.

_Just a bit further ...!_

Her ears popped; somewhere, something exploded, and then her vision darkened. All she could think as the world whirled around her ears in a familiar, albeit pain-lanced, sensation, was,

_Finally_.

* * *

><p>"I think we got off on a unfortunate start."<p>

"..."

Hermione stared at the outstretched hand. Tom Riddle wanted to, to ... make friends?

_How many pure intentions are behind that request? Close to zero, likely._

They were in the hospital wing of Hogwarts, each seated on adjacent white beds. Dressed in hospital garb, Hermione had one foot over the edge and the other leg tucked in. Dark bags played under recently opened, exhausted eyes, and alongside the chaotic nest that was her hair, it completed the appearance of the recently ill.

Riddle sat across from her, handsome even in the plain white shift of the hospital. His inky dark hair was only slightly out of order compared to Hermione's, mussed at the top. But his complexion was clear, if slightly pale. He was leaning forward, both socked feet on the ground, leaning his left elbow on one knee and holding out the other hand in a gesture of peace. He was waiting for her answer.

It was two days since The Incident. The one that had for a short while cast her into the pits of despair - and, to be fair, quite unsettled Riddle, too. Not that he really deserved consideration.

They were stuck together, quite literally. Oh, yes, they could put distance between them. To an extent. They didn't have to be touching or anything, or even standing within three feet of each other. It was more like 10 or 15 meters, and allowed a lot of breathing room.

For reasons unknown, some kind of magical tether was binding them together. The teachers were less than aware of it, they had instead come up with a convoluted and ridiculous explanation: that it was all a rare magical accident - a ghost haunting gone awry, magic reacting in unpredictable ways.

Professor Dippet had gone on and on about it. How, many ghosts left their magical signature on one they marked for a past transgression and tended to haunt them for extended periods. Usually, it ended when the victim (Tom bloody Riddle was the victim here, not her, according to the doting professor) moved on for an extended time from the premises. In other words, when Riddle left the school for longer than just Christmas Break (not that he would).

What frustrated her about the situation was, Wizards just let things like this happen all the time. There was very little they took seriously aside from cold-blooded murder. Ghost haunting and disrupting a student's life for their entire school career? They'll get over it. Dementors that suck even what little happiness you may be able to find already in prison? They're bad people, they deserve it. Love potion? It's all just a bit of fun. Hermione made a face of disgust.

And now, they were forced to cope and asked to attend classes together like it was a normal thing. By the school, the teachers, through the sheer fact that there wasn't anything they Could do, currently. Hermione had to wonder what kind of mental she was really capable of, because this was, without a doubt, the maddest thing she had ever heard of, not something she would have thought herself capable of imagining. All that time spent going through an old wizard's collection of memories on top of War Trauma had really done a number on her.

She sighed.

"... I suppose we did," Hermione finally said, returning to the present. She reached forward and grasped Riddle's hand. "Hermione Granger."

His hand, fingers long and skin warm and callused, closed around hers and gave a single, firm shake.

A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. "Good," he said softly. "Tom Riddle."

She just barely resisted making a face and broke the handshake and the staring contest, lifting a cold foot back onto the bed and tucking it under the sheets. She looped the rest of the spread around her shoulders to ward of the sudden chill that permeated the air, and fiddled with her fingers.

"So, what's our first class?" she asked lamely.

* * *

><p>Please tell me what you think! Sorry for the shortness, I am constantly at war with myself how much further to take a chapter. The story seems to be moving at a snail's pace ...<p> 


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